Untitled Book 3

by Susan Elliot Wright

  Still laughing, she turns to him. ‘That’s brilliant, really. You’re so clever.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says again. He looks almost as if he’s blushing. ‘You’d better look at the other one, though.’

  Smiling, she turns back to the side view. Again, the shading is stunning, giving the contours of her face a depth that makes it seem three-dimensional. It’s hard to believe he’s achieved all this with nothing but a pencil on white paper. ‘It’s . . . it’s incredible,’ she says. It’s only then that she focuses properly on the rest of her head. All she notices at first is that the large skull area is divided in a different way to the first drawing, where all the sections are defined by soft grey lines. In this picture there are eight sections, five of which curl around the outer edge of her skull, starting just above her forehead and finishing right round at the base near the nape of her neck. The shape reminds her of a question mark. In the middle, an inverted triangle that looks roughly heart-shaped is divided into three, and it is when she sees the drawings in this section that her throat constricts and tears rush to her eyes. She bites her bottom lip and hears herself draw in a breath.

  Dylan is looking at her with concern. ‘Are you okay?’

  She nods, but can’t speak. She forces her eye away from the middle area; she’ll have to come back to that. Instead, she looks at the pictures that surround it. The first one, above her forehead, shows a woman and a girl, both wearing aprons, turning a cake out of a cake tin. She’d mentioned several times how much she loved making cakes, and that she’d started baking as soon as she was tall enough to reach the cooker. He probably assumed he was drawing a representation of her mum here. The next section shows a man and a little girl on a riverbank: her dad with his fishing rod, herself with a net. In the next one, the girl – herself – is older and stands smiling, holding the hands of the two women either side of her. ‘Is that . . . ?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be your mum and the woman upstairs, Peggy. A bit of poetic licence there, really. I drew it like that because you sort of had two mums, in a way.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ she murmurs.

  He watches her anxiously as she scrutinises the next picture, which comes almost at the base of her skull. It’s recognisably herself, even though she has long hair in this one: it shows her sitting at a table, crying as she looks at a photograph in her hand. Just behind her, to the right of the picture, stands her mother, also crying.

  She looks up at Dylan. She’d forgotten telling him how she’d first found out about Peter. Still nodding slowly, she leans in to look more closely at the last of the outer sections. He’s shaded around an uneven area that seems to glow white and empty. Beneath the vacant patch is the tiny figure of a little girl, and just above her head, a cluster of question marks. To her right stands a man in a white coat, holding a clipboard; to her left, a man and woman – her parents, presumably. ‘Your memory must be bloody good,’ she says. ‘I told you all that the first year you were here.’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing you forget, is it?’ Then he jerks his head up. ‘Shit, I wasn’t saying . . . I meant, I wouldn’t forget you telling me something like that.’

  She puts her hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right; I know what you meant.’

  And now that she allows her eyes to rest on that inverted triangle, her heart starts beating harder as her eyes focus. In the top right-hand compartment is Doris, the old camper van that had been her home for almost two years; the left-hand section shows a teddy bear made entirely of flowers, and the final picture, the one at the bottom, is of herself, her bald head lowered towards the naked newborn in her arms. These last three drawings are all surrounded by raindrops. Or maybe tears.

  Eleanor, October 1982

  After her initial wobble about starting university with no hair, Eleanor decided the only way to cope was to grit her teeth and get on with it. She told Ray about the little patches coming through on the back of her head, but he didn’t want to look. ‘You’re worrying too much,’ he said. ‘I reckon it’ll all grow back soon, and in the meantime . . .’ He glanced at her head and she thought she saw a look of distaste flash across his features, although maybe she imagined it. ‘You can only tell it’s a wig if you look closely.’

  That was their last night together before she left. His mum and dad were away for the weekend, and she assumed he’d want to sleep with her. They’d slept together a few times now, and she was starting to get the hang of it, so she was mildly disappointed when he said he’d better call a minicab to take her home because he had to be up early the next day.

  When the cab arrived, he walked her to the door and kissed her deeply. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘We’ll get together in a couple of weeks, once you’ve settled in.’

  As she turned to go down the path, he patted her on the bottom. It was gentle, but it felt like he was pushing her towards the cab.

  They’d only seen each other twice since then, meeting up in a pub in Paddington on both occasions because it was easier than him coming to Reading or her going back to Lewisham. The first time, a couple of weeks into the term, they’d eaten ham-and-mustard sandwiches washed down with a couple of bottles of lager, then they’d walked around Norfolk Square, holding hands and talking mainly about the books they were doing. He asked how her hair was coming along, and she laughed. She wasn’t sure why.

  The second time, a few weeks later, they sat in the pub again. Culture Club were on the jukebox, Boy George asking ‘Do You Really Want To Hurt Me’ over and over. Ray didn’t want any lunch, he said, so he just had a packet of peanuts while Eleanor ate her cheese and tomato roll. He was going camping during reading week, he told her, with a few mates from Queen Mary’s. They planned to go to North Wales, do some cycling, maybe some walking. He told her a bit about David and Tom, who were going with him. She listened attentively, smiling and nodding in the right places, determined not to let him know she was disappointed. Then, when he sat back and lit a cigarette, she told him about the girls she was sharing a house with: Diane, who was tall and thin and smoked black Sobranie – she was the student union rep for their year; Wendy, who came from County Antrim and was the eldest of nine children. She reminded Eleanor of a milkmaid, and was forever making toast or pouring bowls of cereal for the others and clearing away the plates afterwards. Then there was Kathy, who looked like a blonde Kate Bush and claimed to be sleeping with one of the lecturers, though she wouldn’t say who; and finally Joy, who kept herself to herself and gave the impression that she hated sharing her living space. Apart from Joy, who barely spoke, the other girls were friendly and easy-going.

  Ray seemed preoccupied, and hardly said two words the whole afternoon. When he looked at his watch for the umpteenth time, Eleanor drained her glass, stood up and said, ‘Sorry, I’m obviously keeping you from something more important,’ and walked out. She felt quite pleased with herself. He’d been a bit off with her on the phone last time, too, and if she was going to make the effort to come all the way here to meet him, he could at least pretend to be interested in what she was saying.

  She was halfway down Praed Street when he caught up with her. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie. I’m just a bit distracted, that’s all. I’ve got an essay on Swinburne and Tennyson due in on Wednesday and I’ve barely started it. I should have told you I couldn’t make it today, but I really wanted to see you, especially as we won’t see each other during reading week.’

  He did look genuinely sorry. ‘Okay,’ she said after a minute. ‘But you should have told me before.’

  ‘I know. I’m a shit.’

  ‘Yeah, you are a bit.’ She looked at her watch. ‘You might as well get off home, then. I can get a train in about half an hour.’

  He smiled. ‘Listen, I’ll make it up to you next time, okay?’ He took hold of the collar of her jacket with both hands, pulled her towards him and kissed her firmly on the lips. ‘I’ll phone you,’ he said, then he turned and walked away.

  *

  When read
ing week came around, she’d planned to stay in her room and do exactly what she was supposed to be doing – reading. But Diane, Kathy and Wendy insisted on dragging her to a party up the road. She resisted at first, but she was flattered by how keen they seemed to be for her to go with them. It was while they were all in the living room getting ready that she decided to bite the bullet.

  ‘There’s something I’d like to tell you all,’ she said. Kathy was putting on her mascara in front of the mirror above the fireplace, Wendy was using a hand mirror propped up against a ketchup bottle on the dining table. Diane was sitting on the arm of the sofa, smoking and watching them with mock disdain.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Kathy muttered, still layering on the mascara.

  ‘Something about myself.’ She could feel her heart beating faster. Shit. She couldn’t back out now.

  ‘You used to be a man.’ Diane said, straight-faced.

  Eleanor laughed, feeling the tension starting to evaporate. ‘No, it’s not quite that dramatic.’ She reached up to her head then lowered her hand again and took a breath. ‘I . . . This is a wig. I lost my hair a few weeks before I came here.’ They were all looking at her now, all completely still.

  Diane was the first to speak. ‘What, it just fell out? All of it?’

  She nodded. ‘It happened over a few days, but, yes, all of it. Some people lose their body hair as well, but it’s only on my head.’

  ‘So,’ Kathy paused, the mascara wand in mid-air. ‘So under that wig . . .’

  ‘I’m almost completely bald, yes. There are a few patches growing back, but not much yet. And it’s uneven, anyway, so . . .’ She shrugged.

  Then they were all talking at once, asking questions and being sympathetic and telling her they had no idea it was a wig and had she thought of shaving her head like that lecturer, the one who specialised in Chaucer and Middle English. ‘You could pull it off, you know,’ Wendy said. ‘Your head’s a nicer shape, and you’re much prettier than she is.’

  By the time they set off for the party, Eleanor felt as though she was properly part of the group now; one of the gang. She wondered why she hadn’t told them before; they were her mates, after all.

  She almost forgot about Ray and his camping trip, and when she phoned him the following weekend, she was gratified by the surprise in his voice when she told him about the party and what a great time she’d had.

  Eleanor, 17 December 1982

  It was the end of term, and they were getting ready for another party – in their own house, this time. They spent all afternoon decorating the rooms with paper chains and fairy lights. Eleanor was looking forward to it. It was a last chance to have a good time before going home for Christmas. Her stomach lurched at the thought. Ever since she’d found out about Peter, it had been virtually impossible to enjoy herself while she was at home. It felt wrong to laugh or be too happy, considering what she’d done when she was little.

  The payphone in the hall rang while they were putting their make-up on in the living room. Kathy went to answer it. ‘Hang on,’ Eleanor heard her say. ‘I’ll get her.’ She came back into the room. ‘It’s for you, Ellie – Ray.’

  ‘Ray? Wonder what he wants.’ She took a sip of her Bacardi and Coke and went into the hall. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ellie, it’s me.’

  ‘I know. How’s it going?’

  ‘I, er, I thought I’d give you a bell.’

  She waited.

  ‘How did you get on with your essay?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Weren’t you doing something on Swinburne and . . . ?’ He sounded strange; nervous.

  ‘Tennyson. Yes, I got it in on time. Haven’t got it back yet, though. I think it’ll be all right.’

  ‘Thing is, Eleanor . . .’

  Ah. Now she knew what was coming.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I think we should split up.’

  Her initial reaction was annoyance. How dare he assume she’d be hurt. But then she realised she was hurt. Not devastated, not heartbroken, but yes, a little hurt.

  ‘I was thinking, it’s not practical, is it? With me in London and you in Reading. I mean, it’ll be months before we see each other again, won’t it?’

  ‘Not really. I’ll be home for Christmas next week.’

  ‘Yes, but I meant after—’

  ‘It’s my hair, isn’t it? My lack of it, I mean?’ She hadn’t known she was going to say that. Not so boldly and bluntly, anyway.

  There was a telltale moment’s hesitation. ‘No, it’s just . . . You’re a really nice girl, Ellie. And I still want to be friends, but . . .’

  She was aware that things had gone quiet in the living room. She tried to make her voice brisk. ‘It’s all right, Ray. Let’s just call it a day, shall we?’

  ‘I knew you’d understand.’ The relief in his voice was unmistakable. She didn’t know why she was so bothered. He was nice enough and he made her laugh, but it’s not like she wanted to get engaged to him or anything. He’d seemed okay about her hair at first, but now she thought about it, she realised that every time they spoke, he asked if it was growing back yet. ‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘See you around.’

  When she pushed the living-room door open, there was a sudden flurry of activity as everyone pretended they hadn’t been listening. ‘Fuck him,’ she announced as she walked back in. Joy and Wendy were doing their make-up at the table; they both looked up. ‘You okay?’ Wendy said.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You weren’t massively keen on him, were you?’

  She shook her head. She could feel tears brimming and she didn’t trust herself to speak. Why on earth was she so upset? She wasn’t massively keen on him. ‘You know,’ she murmured, unzipping her make-up bag, ‘I’m sure it was because of my hair. I think the only reason he didn’t split up with me straight away was because he thought it would have grown back by now.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Kathy said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Wendy agreed. ‘You should have told him to go fuck himself.’

  Even Joy, who rarely joined in their conversations and who never swore, added, ‘It’ll be the only fuck he’s getting tonight.’

  They were all giggling now, and she had that feeling again of being one of them, a cherished part of their group.

  *

  She was on her third or possibly fourth drink by the time people started arriving, and she was already starting to feel a bit pissed. She made a point of adding a lot of Coke to her next Bacardi, and as she was putting the cap back on the bottle, she was aware of someone at her side. He held out a glass. ‘Can you splash a bit in there please?’ It was Simon Adams from her post-colonial literature seminar group. Tall, smiley, the sparkliest green eyes she’d ever seen and ridiculously golden curly hair – he looked like a grown-up cherub.

  ‘Thanks.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘Helena, isn’t it?’

  ‘Eleanor. Ellie.’

  ‘Thanks, Ellie.’ He didn’t bother to introduce himself – he probably guessed everyone knew who he was – and with another dazzling smile, he faded away into the huddle of people bobbing around to ‘Our House’.

  Eleanor’s plan to slow down on the Bacardi and Cokes fell by the wayside fairly quickly, and she soon lost count of how many she’d had. She was sitting on the floor between Diane and Wendy, their backs against the wall, legs stretched out in front of them, watching some annoying bloke perform his juggling ‘act’. While Eleanor and Wendy could barely conceal their amusement, Diane remained stony-faced. When he’d finished, clearly expecting more than the trickle of weak applause, Diane took a drag of her Russian cigarette, exhaled and pronounced in a voice heavy with contempt, ‘Riveting.’

  Eleanor and Wendy caught each other’s eye and grinned.

  ‘I need a bloody drink after that,’ Diane said. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘S’okay,’ Eleanor said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll get my own.’ She made her way to the drinks table, aw
are that the room was starting to spin. She’d better slow down. She’d just picked up the Bacardi when Simon appeared at her side again. ‘Allow me,’ he said, taking her glass from her and sloshing in a generous amount of Bacardi followed by a splash of Coke. ‘You don’t want to drown it, you know.’

  To her horror, she felt tears spring to her eyes and start spilling down her cheeks. Simon’s expression instantly changed to one of concern. ‘Oh, fuck, what is it?’ He took her glass and put it on the table, then put his arm round her. ‘Come on, let’s get some fresh air.’ He steered her out of the room and along the hall, through the kitchen and out the back door. The landlord kept promising to clear the garden, which was overgrown and full of junk, but with everything dusted with white frost that sparkled in the moonlight, it looked enchanting.

  ‘Now,’ he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. He seemed to be searching her face, then he gently placed his thumbs under her eyes and swept her tears away. ‘Tell Uncle Simon; what’s making you cry?’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t know, really. I’ve had a bit too much to drink and I’m being silly.’

  He nodded. ‘Too many bevvies can do that. I was at a party a couple of weeks back and someone put “Without You” on the stereo. I fucking hate that record – always have, but there I was, blubbing like a baby.’

  Eleanor smiled and wiped her eyes. The garden appeared to spin for a moment before settling again. ‘Sorry. I’m fine, honestly.’ Maybe she was more bothered about Ray than she’d thought. ‘It might be because, well, I split up with my boyfriend earlier.’

  ‘Your choice or his?’

  ‘His. But I’m not—’

  ‘He’s a fucking idiot.’ He looked at her. ‘You’re shivering. Come here,’ he pulled her into his arms. ‘Let me warm you up.’

  She allowed herself to snuggle against him. Everything felt a bit spinny when she closed her eyes, but at least she wouldn’t fall over because Simon was holding her.